Castile for Isabella

by Виктория Холт

  This was not the truth. Carlos was a man of great charm and integrity. He was good-natured, gentle, honourable, and in the eyes of many people a perfect Prince. He was intellectual and artistic; he loved music; he could paint and was a poet; he was something of a philosopher and historian, and would have preferred to live quietly and study; it was the great tragedy of his life that he found himself drawn, against his will, into a bloody conflict with his own father.

  The trouble had begun when Joan had asked that she might share the government of Navarre with Carlos, who had inherited this territory on the death of his mother, the daughter of Charles III of Navarre.

  Joan’s intention was to oust Carlos from Navarre that she might preserve it for her darling Ferdinand, who was only a baby as yet but for whom her ambitions had begun to grow from the day of his birth. Joan’s manner was arrogant, and her policy was to create disturbance, so that the people would become dissatisfied with the rule of Carlos.

  Joan was considerably helped in her desire to cause trouble by two ancient Navarrese families who for centuries had maintained a feud – concerning the origin of which neither was absolutely sure – which gave them the excuse to make forays into each other’s territory from time to time.

  These families were the Beaumonts and the Agramonts. They saw, in the conflict between the Prince and his stepmother, an excuse to make trouble. The Beaumonts therefore allied themselves with Carlos, which meant that automatically the Agramonts gave their support to the Queen; as a result war had broken out and the Agramonts, being the stronger party, took Carlos prisoner.

  Carlos was confined for some months, the prisoner of his father and stepmother; but eventually he escaped and sought refuge with his uncle, Alfonso V of Naples. Unfortunately for Carlos, shortly after his arrival there, Alfonso died and it was necessary for Carlos to attempt reconciliation with his father.

  Joan was eager to keep the King’s heir in disgrace, and Carlos lingered in Sicily, where he became very popular, but when news of his popularity was brought to the Court of Aragon, Joan was disturbed. She saw a possibility of the Sicilians setting up Carlos as their ruler; and of course Joan had long ago decided that Sicily, together with Navarre and Aragon, should become the domain of her darling little Ferdinand.

  It was necessary, she said, to recall Carlos to Aragon. So Joan and the King met Carlos at Igualada, and the meeting appeared to be such an affectionate one that all those who witnessed it rejoiced, for Carlos was popular wherever he went, and it was the desire of the majority that the family quarrel should cease and Carlos be declared without any doubt his father’s heir.

  This was exactly what Joan intended to prevent, as in her opinion there was but one person who should be declared his father’s heir; and the people must be brought to accept this. She prevailed upon her husband to summon the Cortes and, there before it, declare his unwillingness to name Carlos his successor.

  Carlos, bewildered and unhappy, listened to his advisers, who assured him that his best place, since his royal house of Aragon was against him, was to ally himself with that of Castile.

  This could be done through marriage with the half-sister of Henry of Castile, little Isabella, who was now being carefully guarded at the Palace of Arevalo.

  She was as yet a child, being some nine years old; and in addition she had been destined for Ferdinand. But the King of Castile and the child’s mother would be far more likely to smile on a match with the elder son of John of Aragon than the younger. Moreover, nothing could be calculated to flout the authority of his stepmother so completely as to snatch the bride she had intended for Ferdinand.

  This was the plot, reports of which had reached Joan Henriquez; and it was on this account that she raged against Carlos, to her husband, and determined to bring about his destruction.

  ‘That poor child,’ she cried. ‘She is nine years old and Carlos is forty! It will be at least another three years before she is of an age to consummate the marriage. By that time he will be forty-three. Ferdinand is now eight years old. What a charming pair they would make! I hear she is a handsome girl; and Ferdinand... our dearest Ferdinand... surely, John, you must agree that there is not a more perfect child in Aragon, in Castile, in Spain, in the whole world!’

  John smiled at her fondly. He loved her more deeply in those moments when her habitual calm deserted her and she showed the excessive nature of her love for Ferdinand. Then she became like another woman, no longer the Joan Henriquez who had such a firm grasp of state matters; then she was the predatory mother. Surely, thought John, there cannot be another child in Aragon who is loved as fiercely and deeply as our Ferdinand.

  He laid his hand on her shoulder. ‘Dearest,’ he said, ‘we will find some means of preventing this calamity. Isabella shall be for Ferdinand.’

  ‘But, husband, what if Henry of Castile decides to accept Carlos’ offer? What if he says Carlos is the rightful heir of Aragon?’

  ‘It is for me to decide who shall succeed me,’ said John.

  ‘There would be trouble if you should choose any other than the eldest son. Ferdinand is young yet, but when he grows up, what a warrior he will be!’

  ‘Alas, my dear, he is not grown up yet; and if Carlos married and there were children of the marriage....’

  Joan’s eyes flashed with purpose. ‘But Carlos is not yet married. It will be some years before he can marry, if he waits for Isabella. She could not possibly bear a child for another four years at least. A great deal can happen in four years.’

  The King looked into her face, and it seemed as though deep emotions within him were ignited by the passion he read in her eyes.

  Ferdinand was the fruit of their union. For Ferdinand she was ready to give all that she possessed – her honour, her life itself.

  There was exultation in her voice when she said: ‘I believe that I have been blessed with second sight, John. I believe a great destiny awaits our son. I believe that he will be the saviour of our country and that in years to come his name will be mentioned with that of the Cid Campeador. Husband, I believe that we should deserve eternal damnation if we did not do all within our power to lead him to his destiny.’

  John grasped his wife’s hand. ‘I swear to you, my dearest wife,’ he said, ‘that nothing... nothing shall bar Ferdinand’s way to greatness.’

  * * *

  In her retreat at Olit, Blanche lived her quiet life.

  She had two desires; one was that she might be allowed to pass her time in peace at this quiet refuge, the other that her brother Carlos might triumph over his stepmother and win his way back into their father’s good graces.

  Occasionally she heard news of Castile. Henry had had no more good fortune with his new wife than he had had with Blanche. There was still no sign of an heir for Castile, and it was seven years since he had married the Princess of Portugal. She knew that Castile was almost in a state of anarchy; that there were armed bands of robbers on the roads and that rape and violence of all sorts were accepted in a light-hearted fashion, which could only mean that the country was bordering on chaos. She had heard rumours of the King’s scandalous way of life, and that his Queen was by no means a virtuous woman. Stories of her liaison with Beltran de la Cueva were circulated. Blanche feared that affairs in Castile were as chaotic and uncertain as they were in Aragon.

  But Castile was no longer any great concern of hers. Henry had repudiated her, and she would ignore Henry.

  Aragon was a different matter.

  Who was there left in her life to love but her brother Carlos? Dear Carlos! He was too good, too gentle and kindly to understand the towering ambition, the jealousy and frustration of a woman such as Joan Henriquez. And there could be no doubt that their father was completely under the influence of Joan.

  She longed to help Carlos, to advise him. Strange as it might seem, she felt she was in a position to do so; she believed that, from her lonely vantage point, she could see what was happening more clearly than her brother could, and she
was sure that now was the time for him to be on his guard.

  Every time a messenger approached her palace she was afraid that he might be bringing bad news of Carlos. She experienced that premonition of evil which she had known during that period when Henry was preparing to discard her.

  When her father had gone to Lerida to hold the Cortes of Catalonia – soon after Carlos had asked for the hand of Isabella of Castile – he had asked Carlos to meet him there.

  She had warned Carlos, and she knew his faithful adherents had done the same. ‘Do not go to Lerida, dear Carlos,’ she had implored. ‘This is a trap.’

  But Carlos had reasoned: ‘If I will not negotiate with my father, how can I ever hope for peace?’

  And so he had gone to Lerida where his father had immediately ordered his arrest and incarceration, accused, falsely, of plotting against the King.

  But the people of Catalonia adored their Prince and demanded to know why the King had imprisoned him; they murmured against the unnatural behaviour of a father towards his son, and they accused the Queen of vindictiveness and the scheming design to have the rightful heir disinherited in favour of her own son.

  Deputations arrived from Barcelona, and as a result it was necessary for John to leave Catalonia for the safer territory of Aragon without delay, and in a manner which was far from dignified. And the result: rebellion in Catalonia.

  Back in Saragossa, John had gathered together an army, but meanwhile the revolt had spread, and Henry of Castile, who now looked upon Carlos as his sister’s prospective husband, invaded Navarre on the side of Carlos against the King of Aragon. Carlos up to this time had been held prisoner, but in view of the state of the country John saw that his only course was to release his son.

  The people blamed Joan for what had happened and, in order to win back their love for his beloved wife, John declared that he had released Carlos because she had begged him to do so.

  Carlos, the kindest of men, bore no grudge against his stepmother, and allowed her to accompany him through Catalonia on his way to Barcelona, where John had hoped his presence would restore order; and the fact that his stepmother accompanied him led the people to believe that Carlos had returned to the heart of the family.

  Blanche shook her head over these events. Now was the time for Carlos to beware as never before.

  What would Joan be thinking during that ride to Barcelona, when she saw the people coming out in their thousands to cheer their Prince and having only sullen looks for his stepmother?

  But Carlos seemed unable to learn from previous experience. Perhaps he was weary of strife; perhaps he wished to leave the arena and return to his books and painting, perhaps he so hated strife that he deliberately deluded himself.

  He refused to listen to warnings. He preferred to believe that his father and his stepmother were genuine in their assertions that they desired his friendship. But the Queen was warned that she would be unwise to enter Barcelona, where a special welcome was being prepared for Carlos.

  And now the Catalans all stood behind their Prince. Blanche had heard of the great welcome they had given him when he entered Barcelona.

  ‘It is Catalonia today,’ it was said; ‘tomorrow it will be Aragon. Carlos is the rightful heir to the throne and wherever he goes is loved. “We will have Carlos,” the people cry. “And the King of Aragon must either accept him as his heir or we will see that there is a new King of Aragon. King Carlos!” And King John? He has deeply offended the people of Catalonia. They will never allow him to enter their province unless he craves and obtains the permission of his people.’

  Triumph for Carlos, thought Blanche. Oh, but Carlos, my brother, this is your most dangerous moment!

  And so she waited, with that fearful premonition of evil.

  She was even at the window watching when the messenger arrived.

  ‘Bring him to me immediately,’ she told her attendants. ‘I know he brings news of the Prince, my brother.’

  She was right: and she saw by the messenger’s expression the nature of the news.

  ‘Highness,’ said the messenger, ‘I crave your pardon. I am the bearer of bad news.’

  ‘Please tell me without delay.’

  ‘The Prince of Viana has fallen ill of a malignant fever. Some say he contracted this during his stay in prison.’

  She said: ‘You must tell me everything... quickly.’

  ‘The Prince is dead, Highness.’

  Blanche turned away and went silently to her apartment; she locked her door and lay on her bed, without speaking, without weeping.

  Her grief as yet was too overwhelming, too deep for outward expression.

  * * *

  Later she asked herself what this would mean. Little Ferdinand was now the heir of Aragon. His rival had been satisfactorily removed. Removed? It was an unpleasant word. But Blanche believed it to be the correct one to use in this case.

  It was a terrifying thought. If her suspicion were true, could her father have been cognisant of a plot to murder his own son? It seemed incredible. Yet he was the blind slave of his wife, and she had coaxed him to worship, with her, the beloved Ferdinand.

  ‘My only true friend!’ she murmured; and she thought of her brother, who, had he been allowed to reach the throne, would have been a good ruler of Aragon – just, kindly, generous, learned.

  ‘Oh my dear brother!’ she cried. And later she said: ‘And what will now become of me?’

  She remembered, when the first shock of her loss had diminished, that Carlos’ death left her the heiress of Navarre, and she knew that greedy hands would be waiting to snatch what was hers.

  Her sister, Eleanor de Foix, would be eager to step into her shoes, and how could she do that except through the death of her elder sister? Carlos had been removed. Would the same fate fall upon her?

  ‘Holy Mother of God,’ she prayed, ‘let me stay here, where at least I know peace. Here in this quiet spot, where I can watch over the poor people of Olit, who look to me for the little I am able to do for them, I can, if not find happiness, be at peace. Let me stay here. Preserve me from that battlefield of envy and ambition which has destroyed my brother.’

  Navarre was a dangerous possession. Joan Henriquez would want it for Ferdinand; Eleanor would want it for her son, Gaston, who had recently married a sister of Louis XI of France.

  ‘If my mother had known how much anxiety this possession would bring to me, she would have made a different will,’ she told herself.

  So Blanche continued to wait. Nor did she have to wait long.

  There arrived a letter from her father, in which he told her he had great news for her. She had been too long without a husband. Her marriage to Henry of Castile had been proved null and void; therefore she was at liberty to marry if she wished.

  And it was his desire that she should marry. Moreover, he had a brilliant prospect to lay before her. Her sister Eleanor enjoyed the favour of the King of France, and she believed that a match could be arranged between Blanche and the Duc de Berri, Louis’ own brother.

  ‘My dear daughter,’ wrote the King, ‘this is an opportunity of which we have not dared dream.’

  Blanche read and re-read the letter.

  Why is it, she asked herself, that when life has treated one badly and seems scarcely worth living, one still fought to retain it?

  She did not believe in this talk of marriage with the Duc de Berri. If Carlos had met his death by poison, why should not she, Blanche? And if she were dead, Eleanor would take Navarre. What a great gift that would be to her son; and since he was the husband of the French King’s sister, Blanche did not believe that Louis would raise any objection if such a crime were committed in his territory.

  ‘You must not go to France!’ There were warning voices within her which told her that. Her servants, who loved her, also warned her against going. So, she thought, I am not the only one who suspected the manner in which Carlos died.

  ‘Marriage is not for me,’ she wrote to her father.
‘I have no wish to go to France, even for this brilliant marriage. I intend to spend the rest of my days here in Olit, where I shall never cease to pray for the soul of my brother.’

  Perhaps the mention of her brother angered her father. How much, she wondered, was there on his conscience? He wrote in extreme irritation that she was foolish to dream of casting aside such a wonderful opportunity.

  ‘Nevertheless,’ was her reply, ‘I shall stay at Olit.’

  But she was wrong.

  Late one night there was a clattering of horses’ hoofs in the courtyard, followed by a hammering on the door.

  ‘Who goes there?’ called the guards.

  ‘Open up! Open up! We come in the name of King John of Aragon.’

  There was nothing to be done but let them in. Their leader, when he was taken to Blanche, bowed low with a deference which contained a hint of authority.

  ‘I crave your pardon, Highness, but the King’s orders are that you prepare to leave Olit at once.’

  ‘For what destination?’ she asked.

  ‘For Béarn, Madam, where your noble sister eagerly awaits you.’

  So Eleanor eagerly awaited her – yes, with a burning ambition for her son Gaston which equalled that of Joan Henriquez for the young Ferdinand!

  ‘I have decided to stay in Olit,’ she told him.

  ‘I am sorry to hear you say that,’ was the answer, ‘for the King’s orders are, Highness, that, if you will not consent to go, you must go by force.’

  ‘So,’ she cried, ‘it has come to that!’

  ‘These are the King’s orders.’

  She said: ‘Allow me to go to my women that I may make my preparations.

  ‘Holy Mother of God,’ she prayed, ‘why should there be this desire to cling to a life which is scarcely worth the living?’

  But the desire was there.

  She said to her most trusted women: ‘Prepare. We have to leave Olit. We must escape. It is imperative that we are not taken to Béarn.’

  But where could she go? she asked herself. To Castile? Henry would befriend her. He had repudiated her, but he had never been actively unkind. For all his faults she did not believe Henry would connive at murder. She would explain to him her suspicions of Carlos’ end; she would implore him to save her from a like fate.